The Trouble With Paradise Read online

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  Catching her wandering hands in his, he arched a brow. “You sure about that?”

  She snatched her hands free. “Yes.”

  “Might want to inform Andy.”

  “I don’t need to explain anything to him.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think you’re quite as insightful as you think, not when it comes to men.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying”—again he exhaled—“be careful.”

  Concern? Was that concern from the man she wasn’t yet entirely convinced was even human?

  Another wave rolled beneath them, making the boat shudder and groan and creak, and she again clutched at him.

  “Helluva storm. Denny’s navigating the waves at an angle to prevent slamming into the back side of the next wave, but he’s missing a few.”

  His hands were back on her, his head bent low to hers. She pressed her jaw to his, taking comfort in his nearness. “Are we going to be okay?”

  “Time will tell.”

  Brutal honesty. She had a feeling he’d always be that way, no matter what, which might be refreshing—if they were on land.

  As if fate wanted to drive home the point, the boat tipped hard to the left, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed.

  “Need to breathe here.”

  “I could use some bedside manners right about now.”

  When he didn’t respond to that, she tipped her head back and looked into his eyes, which were tense, even for him.

  “Dorie—”

  “Oh, God.” Had she just admired his brutal honesty? Because she could see that brutal honesty in his gaze, and suddenly she wanted a lie. “The boat’s going to break apart, isn’t it, and we’re all going to die.” Her throat closed at the thought, her eyes burned, and when she spoke, her voice broke. “I’m too young to die, Christian. Way too young.”

  “Hey. Hey,” he murmured, and stroked a hand down her back. “I’ve been in worse storms, and I’m still breathing.”

  The boat rocked to the right now, but Christian had his legs spread for balance, and still holding her as he was, they didn’t go anywhere.

  And there, surrounded by the hell of her reality, she felt . . . safe.

  Maybe the shock of that had her feeling other things as well, such as the way her breasts were smashed against his chest, or how the button fly of his jeans pressed into her belly—

  Again the boat shifted hard, groaning and creaking under the strain. His arms tightened on her, and she turned her face into his shoulder. The motion arched her spine, just a little, and tore another of those low, rough sounds from his throat.

  Needing to see his face, she looked up.

  His gaze slid to hers, though he didn’t say a word, or move so much as a muscle.

  “I did not consume enough alcohol for this,” she whispered, lifting a hand to her head, which was spinning. “Or maybe the opposite is true.”

  “You only had two.”

  He’s been watching? “I’m a real lightweight,” she admitted. “A cheap date.”

  “Dorie.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “You’re not supposed to tell me that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I could take advantage, that’s why.” He glanced at her bed. “Big advantage.”

  Her erogenous zones went on high alert. “Are you that kind of man?” Did she want him to be?

  He closed his eyes briefly. “You need to go to sleep.”

  Yes. Yes, she did. “I’m scared, Christian.”

  “Don’t.” He scrunched his eyes shut. “Don’t tell me that either. Don’t tell me anything. Hopefully this’ll all be over by morning, and everything will be back to normal.”

  “Which would be you being distant.”

  He stared down at her for a long beat, and she became incredibly, intimately aware of their position, and how she’d glued herself to him. But he wasn’t an innocent bystander. His hand was low on her spine, low enough that his fingers were within reach of her splinter.

  Not commando tonight . . .

  He didn’t say a word but she knew he was thinking it, and she realized there was something pressing into her belly, and it wasn’t just the buttons on Christian’s Levi’s. She licked her dry lips. “Um, are you—”

  “Yes.” His voice was a low, rough whisper. “How’s that for distance?”

  Because she was weak, oh so weak, she arched against him. Nearly every bone in her body melted at the feel of him, at the sound that escaped him, one that might have been part laugh, part groan. She felt his fingers spread wide on her bottom, as if trying to touch as much of her as he could. “Bed.” He sounded strained. “You need to go to bed.”

  Yes, she knew. Bed. But if she went to sleep right now, and if the worst happened and the boat broke apart before dawn and they all drowned tonight in their sleep, she was going to die knowing she hadn’t yet accomplished her goal for the trip. Heck, her goal for the rest of her life.

  Live life to its fullest.

  She glanced out her porthole, where the black night and blacker storm had whipped the sea into a frothy, frenzied, terrifyingly lethal state.

  Dying was a possibility, no matter what he said. Pretty damn final, too. No more chances to do what she’d always figured she had time to do. At the thought, regrets filled her, nearly choked her, but she ruthlessly bit them back. She was going to live to tell this tale, and starting right this very minute, she’d allow no more regrets, no more stalling.

  As Brandy’s mom had said—think big, live big, and love big. Now. Because now was all she might have. In light of that, she was going to do something she’d never done before. “Christian?”

  He looked at her warily.

  For the first time in her life she made the first move, reaching up, fisting her fingers into his hair, tugging his mouth to hers.

  He allowed it, until they were only a fraction of an inch apart, and then he went very, very still.

  Holding back.

  Huh. She sort of thought he’d take over from here, which would be helpful since she really didn’t know too much about seducing a man.

  He didn’t move.

  So she opened her eyes and stared into his stormy ones. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

  “No.”

  Turning her back, she hugged herself. “I’m good now. You can leave.”

  “Dorie—”

  “Please.”

  “All right.”

  She waited. She heard him open the door, and then shut it, and she smacked her own forehead. “Idiot.”

  “You, or me?”

  She froze. He hadn’t left. Of course not. Because apparently she hadn’t yet made a big enough fool of herself. “Me,” she said, not opening her eyes. “I’m definitely the idiot.”

  “There’s something you should know, Dorie.”

  She cracked one eye, thinking if she squinted, it’d somehow be less embarrassing.

  “I don’t mix business and pleasure.” He said this softly, with genuine regret in his eyes. And this time when he opened the door, he really left.

  NINE

  Day Three

  on the Not-Quite-the-Love-Boat Cruise.

  The next morning Dorie opened her eyes and became immediately aware of two things. One, the daylight barely peeking into her porthole looked gray and dingy, nothing like the brilliant sunshine she’d experienced until yesterday evening.

  And two, the boat was still pitching like a roller coaster ride gone bad. She sat up in bed and felt extremely grateful not to be experiencing seasickness, though vertigo was another thing entirely. Taking a shower was an exercise in stamina, but she managed, then dressed—wearing panties today, too, thank you very much. No more commando, even if the material rubbed the splinter. No matter how much it irritated her, it’d just have to stay put until she came up with a solution that didn’t involve requiring outside assistance to remove it.